


All Dolled Up

by scifisis



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Costumes, Established Relationship, F/M, Halloween, PWP, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 03:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2566826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifisis/pseuds/scifisis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichabod has seen Abbie in pants, in undergarments, in what laughingly passes for formal attire in this century and even in the thin pieces of elastic cloth that hug her body like second skin while she practices her yoga, but this is the first time he’s seen her quite like this. A Halloween PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Dolled Up

         

* * *

 

           

            “This is folly,” gripes Ichabod, drumming his fingers on the table impatiently.

            “You said that last year,” comes the reply, equal parts amused and long-suffering. “And the year before that. And the year before _that_.”

            “That does not alter the fact that this is _folly_ ,” he repeats, rapping his knuckles against the wood before rising to his feet, succumbing to the urge to pace. “I can accept that All Hallow’s Eve has become a day of meaningless frivolity wherein children adopt the guises of all manner of monster and mythic creature and scamper down the lanes of their communities to beg for sweets from their neighbors—”

            His bedroom door is not quite thick enough to muffle the familiar sound of Abbie mumbling, “Lord, here we go.”

            “—but what I cannot abide by is sensible adults contributing to this…this utter _nonsense_.”

            “You realize that most people assume you’re playing Halloween on the daily, dressing the way you do.”

            Ichabod rolls his eyes. “Given the modern day’s fashion, I am one of the few who looks remotely normal.”

            “Whatever helps you sleep at night. And it isn’t folly. It’s for charity, it’s good PR for the department and with any luck, it’ll keep Reyes off our backs for a couple of weeks.”

            “I am surprised that Sheriff Reyes is condoning this.”

            “Condoning?” Abbie lets out a laugh. “This was her idea, actually.”

            “And insanity is everywhere,” Ichabod mutters under his breath.

            “This isn’t the first time the department’s had a charity benefit,” she continues, clearly having not heard him, “it’s just the first year it’s fallen on a Halloween weekend.”

            “Which obviously necessitates that all in attendance don a costume.”

            “Crane. You said you were okay with this. What’s the problem?” Ichabod doesn’t answer right away, trying to reel back his impatience. He does not object to the holiday on the whole, only…“Tell me,” Abbie requests in a gentler voice, and Ichabod is compelled.

            “It is All Hallow’s Eve,” he says, tone tight. “The veil between the living and the dead is thin, tonight. It would be an opportune time for the forces of evil to strike.”

            “We’ll be careful. We’ve been at this long enough that we’re pros, Crane.”

            A memory strikes him then, a vision of him rushing down a row of bookcases to find Abbie submerged in an inky pool of ice cold water in a library of all places, where they both should have been safe. The mere memory of it now, years later, of him collapsing to his knees and frantically reaching in, fingers closing on _nothing_ is still enough to arrest his heartbeat.

Pros, indeed. Some days, Ichabod isn’t so sure.

            “Regardless,” he continues once he’s regained control of his voice, “I find neither humor nor merriment in watching men and women drape themselves in the garb of witches and demons and ghosts whilst we combat the very same in an effort to thwart the apocalypse.”

            “You afraid we won’t be able to tell the difference from a costume and the real thing?” Abbie inquires dryly. “Crane, listen: we’re going to be fine. Nothing is going to happen. We’ll go to the gala, have some punch, dance a little and then come home. And if there’s trouble, we’ll handle it like we always do.”

            Ichabod bows his head, though she can’t see him. “As you say,” he concedes, for it is impossible to argue with Abbie when she is like this, glorious and infectious with fierce determination. Behind him, the doorknob to his bedroom twists. “But hear me,” Ichabod goes on, turning around, “if we happen across anyone in a costume remotely resembling Moloch, I shan’t be responsible for my…my…” The rest of the sentence fades from his mind as his eyes fall on Abbie, emerging from the room.

            Ichabod has seen Abbie in pants, in her undergarments, in what laughingly passes for formal attire in this century and even in the thin pieces of elastic cloth that hug her body like second skin while she practices her yoga, but this is the first time he’s seen her quite like this.

            For a moment, he cannot summon words. He can only draw his eyes over her small form until they finally rest on her lips, tugged upwards by a small, devilish smile. She holds her hands behind her back and saunters forward slowly, smile growing with every step. He is entranced.

            “Wow,” Abbie murmurs, clearly pleased. “I figured I was gonna get a reaction, but I wasn’t expecting that.”

            Her voice shakes him out of his stupor. “Miss Mills,” is all Ichabod can manage, eyes tracing once more over the length of her gown, of the yards of perfect white fabric clinging to her body that sets her dusky skin aglow in the flickering candlelight. The sight transfixes him: the creamy expanse of her bared shoulders and elegant collarbones, the delicate lace embroidery on the neckline plunging low over the swell of her bosom, the thin crisscross of the corset strings synching the bodice of the gown to her torso, the snow-white skirt that blooms against the curve of her hips and falls over what must be two or three petticoats.

            “How do I look?” Abbie asks, still smiling her enchanting little smile. She holds out her arms and spins, letting him see the dress in its full glory and Ichabod thinks if he closes his eyes, he might be in the parlor of his father’s manse surrounded by the most affluent families in England, being approached by the loveliest debutante in the county. “Am I about to get my ass chewed out for historical inaccuracy or is it authentic?”

            “It is…you look…” And again the words slip from his mind as she faces him once more. Abbie’s smile could not possibly grow any larger as she reaches back to sweep silken ebony hair over her shoulders.

            “Actually, it’s not complete.” She holds up a ribbon choker adorned with a single pearl. “Could you?”

            Ichabod takes the necklace as Abbie presents him with the graceful line of her neck. He slips the chain over her head and steps closer, immediately struck with the sweet scent of her hair and skin. The ribbon fits snugly over her throat and moves as she swallows. “I feel like Marie Antoinette.”

            That finally gets Ichabod’s brain moving again, and he scoffs. “The queen of France would never have been seen in something so tasteful.”

            “Another one of your old girlfriends?”

            “Perish the thought.” Ichabod latches the chain and lowers his hands, unable to stop himself from running his fingers over the span of her bare shoulders.

            Abbie hums, tilting her head a little to glance in his direction. “So it works?”

            “Yes.” His reply is almost lost in her hair.

            “Mmm,” she hums again, leaning back into him. “You know, it was a pain trying to get into this thing.”

            “I imagine.”

            “I bet,” Abbie says throatily, pressing back a little more, “it would be a lot more fun taking it off.”

            The contact is delicious and coaxes a groan from him, unbidden. “You are shameless,” he breathes, nosing the back of her neck and breathing her in.

            Abbie giggles in her throat and turns in his arms, lifting herself up on her toes. Her lips touch his and it almost undoes him then, that simple kiss. Not entirely of his own volition, Ichabod’s hands slide down her waist. The feel of the ribbing just below fabric of her gown beneath his fingers enflames him.

            “We will be late,” he half-heartedly protests in the breath of space between their mouths before Abbie leans in again.

            “Let’s not go,” Abbie murmurs, draping her arms over his shoulders. “Let’s blow them off and stay here.”

            It’s a tempting thought, Ichabod must admit. The fire in the cabin is burning low, enveloping the room in warmth, and Abbie is soft and pliant in his arms, her fingers burying themselves in his scalp. It would be so simple to lift her into his arms and carry her back to his bedroom, to his bed and spend sublimely long hours peeling back the ivory layers of that gown and paying tribute to every inch of skin that had been concealed from him.

            But he finds that he wants something more. Pressing one last kiss to the line of her jaw, Ichabod says, “We cannot. We made a commitment. And I cannot deny myself the pleasure of dancing with you tonight.”

            Abbie drops her forehead against his chest and croons a soft noise that is both disappointed and pleased. Lifting her head and fixing him with a wry look, she growls, “Only you could turn a girl down and make her even hotter for you, Crane.”

           The rush of blood to his face is immediate and it is _ridiculous_ that after all these years she still has the power to make him flush with only her words and her eyes. He is overcome with the urge to kiss her again but before he can, Abbie steps back resolutely and rolls her shoulders. “Come on then,” she declares. “The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.”

           She holds out a hand and he takes it.

 

* * *

 

            The hall that the charity gala is being hosted in is decorated festively in oranges and black which Ichabod has come to learn are traditional Halloween colors. Colored paper is strewn in great loops along the ceilings accompanied by what Abbie assures him is fake cobwebs full of hairy little spiders.

            “Also fake,” Abbie says when she catches him eyeing them warily.

            They pass through a set of double doors ‘neath a garishly orange banner reading ‘C.O.P.S Charity Benefit’ and onto the main floor, which is fuller than Ichabod had been expecting.

            And it seems every one of the attendees is wearing costumes. Abbie leads them expertly through the colorful mass and Ichabod takes it all in.

            “Are those wings affixed to that young woman’s back?” he finds himself asking, watching dubiously as a maid with golden hair crosses their path, arm in arm with a man in an obnoxiously large green hat.

            “She’s a fairy,” Abbie replies.

            “And the gentleman accompanying her? What is he?”

            “An idiot.” Ichabod’s mouth twitches with a smile. “I wanna say a leprechaun, but god only knows. I think the buffet table is that way. Maybe the punch is spiked.”

            Abbie’s instincts are correct; they find a long table laden with bowls and serving platters set in the back of the hall. Black and orange balloons are anchored to it and scattered over the tablecloth are more plastic insects.

            “Because nothing whets the appetite more than the presence of vermin,” Ichabod sneers. He reaches for the ladle in the punch bowl and pours Abbie a cup.

            Abbie’s fingers brush his as she takes the glass. “You gonna be like this the whole time?”

            “Like what?”

            “Like this,” Abbie repeats, surveying the crowd. “In a mood.”

            “There is no mood.”

            “There’s definitely a mood.” Abbie sips and wrinkles her nose. “Not spiked. Just as well. I should keep my wits about me for later,” she adds in a low voice, casting him a glance full of promise from beneath long eyelashes.

            Ichabod has to break eye contact or he risks being lost. “Absolutely shameless,” he mutters. Abbie squeezes his elbow.

            “Mills.” Both he and Abbie turn to see Reyes approaching. Her hair is pulled back into its usual severe style and she is dressed as she always is, in what Abbie calls a pantsuit. “Glad to see you here.”

            Abbie adopts a more businesslike posture. “Sheriff. Looks like a decent turnout this go ‘round.”

            “It is. Estimates are floating somewhere around fifty.”

            “Dollars?” Ichabod asks before he can stop himself.

            Abbie looks down and Ichabod knows he’s misstepped. A line appears between Reyes’ brows. “Thousand. Awful lot of trouble to go through for just fifty dollars, don’t you think?”

            “Money the families of those lost officers desperately need,” Abbie cuts in smoothly, and Ichabod squeezes her hand in thanks. “And twice as much as last year. This was a good idea, Sheriff. If it’s successful, we should think about doing it again.”

            Reyes makes a sound then, as though displeased. “It should not take buffet tables and decorations to get people to do right by the families of the men and women who died protecting them.”

            “No it shouldn’t, but I’d say in this case the ends justify the means,” says Abbie.

            Reyes digests that for a moment while they assess the party beyond the food table before casting her eyes on Ichabod again. “And why am I not surprised to see you here, Professor? Ever the lieutenant’s shadow.” She looks him up and down. “Didn’t feel the need to dress up, huh?”

            Abbie coughs a little. A nerve in Ichabod’s temple twitches. “Nor did you, I see. Despite the costumes being your idea, as I understand it.”

            “I’m working. I’ve got donors to thank, PBA members’ egos to soothe, media to contend with and a speech to give. Hard to do that if I’m dressed like a Disney character.”

            Abbie lifts her cup in a little toast to Reyes. “I think you could do Princess Jasmine justice, boss.”

            That earns her a short laugh from the sheriff, much to Ichabod’s surprise. “Shake some hands tonight, Mills. Pay particular attention to anybody who’s opened their wallet for the cause.”

            “Sheriff,” Abbie acknowledges with a nod, and Reyes takes her leave.

            “I see Sheriff Reyes isn’t entirely devoid of a sense of humor,” Ichabod observes, clasping his hands behind his back.

            “Poor Crane. You finally found somebody you can’t charm.” Abbie sighs, setting her cup back on the table. “Well, duty calls. Time to go grease some palms. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

            “And what else would I do, pray?”

            “I thought I saw some of the Founding Fathers wandering around. Reminisce?” Ichabod stares at her. Abbie smirks. “You could go and pick apart their mistakes. You’ve always liked doing that.”

            “It isn’t a question of my enjoyment; it is a question of—”

            “Historical accuracy?” Abbie interjects, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

            He regards her flatly. “Quite. Standards should be maintained.”

            “But you enjoy it.”

            “…Perhaps.”

            Abbie laughs. “I’m not the only one who’s shameless.”

           “Regardless, it would be remiss of me to leave you to your duties alone.” He presents Abbie with his elbow. Once she has taken his arm, he covers her small fingers with his free hand and allows her to lead him, refraining as best he can from counting down the minutes.

           Slowly, they work their way through the crowd, stopping every few paces when Abbie spots a familiar face. She is at ease here with everyone she talks to, striking up conversations effortlessly. Ichabod watches as patron after patron is charmed by her and feels something akin to pride.

           “You are remarkably good at this,” Ichabod tells her as she finishes conversing with an older couple who are both dressed like members of the clergy.

           “What, schmoozing?” Abbie snorts. “Being a cop has its advantages. You learn how to read people, how to handle different personalities.”

           “My father would have enjoyed having a hostess like you for his salons.”

           “I don’t know about that,” Abbie says loftily, shooting Ichabod a look. “I might have been too distracted by his son to play host.”

           Ichabod’s expression grows rueful. “I’m afraid I did not attend many of my father’s events. In truth, I found them to be rather dull.”

           “Well then, there would’ve been no reason for me to be there.”

           A sweep of black startles Ichabod. A man in a large hat and a white canvas shirt steps in front of Abbie with a little bow. “Boo,” the masked figure says, rising, and it takes Ichabod a moment to recognize—

           “Luke.” Ichabod has known Abbie long enough to know what she sounds like when she’s exasperated.

           “Happy Halloween, Abbs,” says Morales, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to her cheek. He steps back and looks Ichabod’s way. “Hey there, Crane.”

           “Detective.”

           Abbie gives him a once-over. “Let me guess: Zorro.”

           “Bingo.” Morales flourishes his cape. “What are you supposed to be, exactly?”

           “One of the two Witnesses ordained by God to stop the apocalypse,” Abbie replies with aplomb. Ichabod chokes.

           Morales glances between them. “Okay,” he says slowly, drawing out the last syllable. “Well, I like it. You look incredible.” It is, perhaps, the only time that Ichabod has seen eye to eye with the detective. “Reyes have you working the room, too?”

           “No rest for the wicked,” Abbie affirms with a nod.

           “She’s a hardass even on the holidays. Probably why you two get along so well,” Luke adds with a smirk.

           “Oh, Luke. You say that like I don’t have a gun hiding somewhere in this dress.”

           “Is that an invitation to search for it?”

           Abbie barks out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Not on your life.”

           “Sadness. Oh, well. Save me a dance later, after all this PR bullshit is done?” Abbie doesn’t respond, only smiles a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She doesn’t resist, however, when Morales leans in to place a parting kiss to her cheek, hand lingering on the small of her back. “Later, Abbs.”

           They both watch Morales go, cape billowing behind his back. Once he is out of earshot, Abbie turns imperceptibly towards Ichabod. “Down, boy.”

           “I said nothing.” Ichabod’s actually quite proud of himself, thank you very much, considering it took all his salt not to reach for the saber affixed to Morales’s waist and threaten him with it.

           Warm fingertips trace the back of his hand, which has clenched into a fist at his side. “You didn’t have to,” Abbie says, lacing their fingers together when Ichabod uncurls his. “You went stiff as a plank.”

           Ichabod takes a cleansing breath, eyes trailing after Morales. “The detective takes many liberties.”

           “He wouldn’t if he knew I was taken. Maybe we should get word out before you strain a muscle,” quips Abbie, eyes shining with mirth.

           Ichabod turns to face her properly. “It was at your request that we did not announce our…” Abbie arches an eyebrow. “Courtship,” he settles on. And it is true; Abbie is an intensely private person. She keeps most at arms’ length and does not let anyone see too much of herself. It had taken her some time to trust even him with all her secrets. Ichabod would not dream of forcing the issue. It is enough for him to have her, to be the only one she lets so close.

           “Yeah, at first. I think it’s been long enough now, don’t you?”

           “I…” Abbie’s expression is warm and willing. It touches something deep inside him. “You are certain?”

           “I am. If you want to,” she hastens to add, a touch of hesitation creeping into her eyes.

           The truth comes easily. “Nothing would please me more.” Abbie beams and Ichabod’s heart beats double-time, confronted with her open and unabashed happiness. “I assume that the methods for going about such an announcement have changed over the years. I yield to your experience on the matter. You need only tell me what I must—”

           Abbie presses her lips to his. The contact is chaste but the sudden flare of heat it ignites in his chest is unexpected and Ichabod sucks in a sharp breath just as Abbie pulls away. “Done.”

           “That…am I to understand that that—?”

           “Mmhmm. People will get the message.” Abbie licks her lips. “Was that okay?”

           Ichabod doesn’t respond. His fingers find the lace of one bell sleeve and the delicate wrist it conceals, and he lifts her hand and draws his lips over the back of it, earning him a slow grin from Abbie. “I believe I promised you a dance, my lady.”

           “‘My lady’, huh?”

           “That is what you are. Officially now, as it happens.”

           Still grinning, Abbie shakes her head and allows Ichabod to pull her further onto the floor.

           It isn’t precisely what Ichabod would have desired for their first dance together; the hall is too full, the revelers too loud and the structure of the music unfamiliar, though Abbie seems to be enjoying it. He’s considering striking up a variation of a German dance he saw performed once at a ball in his youth as it would most befit the beat and time, but the song abruptly ends, much to his chagrin. A new song plays, one that’s slower and more modern with an entirely different cadence than he is used to, and he realizes that no dance he knows will match the music.

           Sensing his indecision, Abbie steps in close, placing her hands against his chest and slowly, she leads him into movement. It is a dance like nothing Ichabod has ever seen or done; more a gentle swaying with only a few, small steps. He looks around to see that other couples have also fallen into similar step, and he refocuses his attention onto Abbie, resting a hand along her waist and taking hold of one of hers against his chest. Abbie hums in her throat and turns her face against his beating heart, and they move together.

           It feels wickedly obscene, the proximity and the slow, intimate motions. Having no steps to focus on frees his mind up to take in everything else: Ichabod is acutely aware of every part of her that’s pressed against him, of the folds of her gown that brush against his legs, the wisps of her hair that tease his nose if he turns just so. The swaying makes him feel languid, almost inebriated, and he turns his lips to her temple.

           “This okay?” Abbie pulls back just enough so that she can look up at him. “Not too close?”

           Not close enough. “No. Though it is a measure different than what I had in mind when I thought of dancing.”

           “I’ll bet. But it’s nice, all the same.”

           They spend indolent, silent moments pressed together in the sea of swaying bodies, lost in the music. Ichabod’s thumb traces lazy patterns against the back of Abbie’s hand and he thinks that if he were to die tomorrow in the war, lost to some demon or monster or black magic, it would have all have been well worth the sacrifice to have her like this now. It is a wonder to think that there had been a time in the not too distant past when their joining had not seemed quite so inevitable.

           Ichabod remembers early in their acquaintance, when they were still finding their bearings in their new roles, when every day seemed to bring some new, terrifying danger and when this world was still strange and new. He would not have admitted it then but he had certainly felt it, that draw towards Abbie that went beyond their duty as Witnesses or their friendship, which had seemed to deepen virtually overnight. It had been a source of much guilt whenever his mind turned to Katrina but over time, he found he could no more deny his draw towards the lieutenant than he could cease to breathe. It was there and it was potent, so much so that there were times Ichabod thought he’d go mad with it, until the day Abbie had revealed that she felt much the same.

          “Penny for your thoughts,” Abbie says softly, bringing him out of his mind.

          Ichabod looks down at her. “Thoughts of you are worth substantially more.”

          Abbie’s face reddens ever so slightly. Ichabod soaks up the sight like a sponge. It isn’t often that he can draw a blush from those cheeks, but how he adores seeing it. “You’re going to screw it up for any man who comes after you.”

          “If I have my way, there will be no others,” he says quietly, wondering if he is showing too much of himself.

          Abbie shakes her head, regarding him fondly. “Tell me what you were thinking. You were off inside your head.”

          Ichabod considers his words carefully. “We have been in each other’s acquaintance for nearly five years.”

          “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

          “It occurs to me that I have known you longer than many. Longer than most.” Ichabod pauses. “Longer even than Katrina.” Her name tastes bitter on his tongue. Two years later and her betrayal still stings. “For all that I actually _knew_ her.”

          Abbie lowers her gaze. “Don’t do that.”

          “Do what?”

          “Second guess every minute you two were together. You’ll drive yourself crazy.”

          For a moment, Ichabod indulges in the old anger, the betrayal, the broken trust and ultimately, the sadness that surpasses it all. But he only allows it for a moment before shaking his head. “It no longer matters. She is gone. Like so many others.”

          “We’ve lost a lot,” Abbie agrees, eyes swimming with ghosts. Ichabod wonders if she’s thinking of Hawley, but he hasn’t the courage to ask. Her sadness only lasts briefly as well. The both of them have finally mastered the art of moving on, though it was a difficult lesson to learn. “But we’ve still got each other.”

          “We do indeed. I am most grateful for that, and for you.”

          The music changes yet again, this song just as sultry and slow as the one before. Ichabod’s eyes wander over the couples nearest to them. A young man made up like a zombie is pulling a woman wearing a poor approximation of a Grecian toga against him, his chest to her back. Together, the two begin to move in manner so suggestive that Ichabod jerks his eyes away abruptly.

          Abbie senses the shift in his disposition and she turns her head in the direction of the couple. She makes a sound that Ichabod can only describe as lascivious. “Now that’s more what I had in mind when you said dancing.”

          Ichabod splutters. “That seems very…inappropriate.”

          Abbie chuckles. “Five years in the modern world and you’ve still got that rigid sense of propriety.”

          “As always, I am pleased to see that my discomfort is a source of amusement for you,” he says dryly, but without bite. “I like to think that I’ve acclimated quite well, considering.”

          “You have.” And Ichabod isn’t sure how it is possible, but Abbie manages to move even closer to him. “Couple of years ago and doing something like this would have had you running for the hills.”

          “Your influence, no doubt.”

           Abbie narrows her eyes. “I’m not sure that was a compliment.”

           “Nor am I.”

           “At any rate, I like to see you let your hair down a bit.” Abbie’s voice drops a little lower. “I wonder what else my influence could have you doing.”

           A fleeting thought of concern comes over him, because when Abbie sets her mind to something—even something insignificant or menial—there is absolutely no having her relent. She has the tenacity of Washington and just as much steel in her belly. Ichabod thinks he should perhaps be apprehensive, but the warmth that pools into his belly is too promising to be overshadowed by any feelings of hesitation.

           Abbie does not make him feel hesitant. She makes him feel bold. “What have you in mind?”

           “A quickie.”

            “A—” There is a wicked gleam in Abbie’s eyes. “Surely you do not mean—?”

            “I’m sure I could find us a closet.”

            “That would be unseemly and improper and—”

            “Fun. Hot. I’d like it.” A pink tongue comes out to wet perfect lips. Ichabod cannot take his eyes from the sight. “Something tells me you might, too.”

            That he considers it at all, even for the briefest moment, is a measure of what just three months as Abigail Mills’ lover can do to an otherwise sensible man. Ichabod lets his mind wander, lets himself imagine crowding her into a darkened room barely big enough for them both to fit and hiking up the skirts of her dress around supple thighs, for he would not have the patience to shuck her out of the gown—god, _how_ could he have patience when her mere proximity has him on the very edge of sanity, when she is looking at him like this, when he is defenseless against the sight of her dressed as she is, like a vision from two and a half centuries past _—_

No. It is tempting, sorely tempting, but she is far too exquisite for so haphazard a thing. She must be worshipped properly, with diligence and care until she is as in danger of losing her senses as he is now, until all she can _think_ is his name.

           Ichabod’s hands ghost over her hips, and he lowers his face until his lips are level with the shell of her ear. “I would have you in my bed,” he rumbles against the whorls.

           His reward is the shiver that rolls over her body. “Okay.” Abbie sounds breathless. “Now, then. Let’s go now.”

           Pulling back, Ichabod examines her face. “Are you sure?” he inquires impishly. “Would you not like to stay for the sheriff’s speech, or perhaps another glass of punch? And you’ve yet to have your dance with Detective Morales—”

            “I will kill you, Crane,” declares Abbie. “I will kill you and leave your body in the river and destroy all the evidence and blame it on Moloch.”

            Ichabod cannot resist teasing her one final time. “We could remain and take part in the—what was it, that odd little dance we saw performed at Officer McGivers’ retirement party? The hokey-pokey? Assuming of course that it is a staple at all modern revelries—”

            Abbie practically drags him towards the door.

 

* * *

 

 

            Five years ago, Ichabod had considered motor vehicles a marvel the likes of which he could have never imagined. A journey that would have taken a full day on horseback takes only hours in a car. The sheer speed with which people traveled hither and yon in those contraptions had been a source of wonder for him for many months to come.

            Now, however, tonight in this car with Abbie, Ichabod thinks they don’t move nearly fast enough.

            The ride home is _untenable_. The wait alone is fraying Ichabod’s already waning restraint, but it is the nearness of Abbie that truly makes it unbearable. He turns his eyes to the trees flitting by beyond the windows, for looking at her now will only further test his resolve. It is no use, however; his mind is full of _her_ , awash with the memory of the last night they spent together.

            It had been two days ago, and Ichabod had woken in the middle of the night to the sound of thunder. A flash of lightning and Abbie had been roused seconds later, lifting her head from the pillow and frowning at the rumble that followed. Ichabod had smoothed the ruffled strands of hair from her brow and she had sighed, twisting from her stomach to lie on her side, facing him. When her eyes next opened, they found his in the darkness and Ichabod had seen a smile in them, contented and sleepy. She had been irresistible in that moment and Ichabod’s arms had come around her body and pulled her close. They’d kissed blindly, still half-asleep in the near pitch and eventually, Ichabod had settled onto his back and Abbie had climbed astride him, as if by silent agreement.

           Too often their trysts are hurried, frantic affairs following too frequent brushes with death or in the short calm before they undertake some dangerous mission. That night it had been gentler, slower, with no urgency or desperation rushing their movements, with sleep pressing enticingly behind Ichabod’s eyelids as pleasure slid over his body. Abbie rocked her hips instinctually, sighing, in complete control above him. The lightning flashes illuminated her in unpredictable intervals, giving Ichabod a tantalizing vision of her body and her face, full of pleased, drowsy abandon.

           The vision of her that night writhes up inside of him now with startling clarity, made all the more real by his eidetic memory. Ichabod shifts in the passenger seat, trying without avail to make out the darkened surroundings beyond the windshield to give him an idea of how much longer he would be trapped in this godforsaken vehicle.

           Abbie must sense his quiet desperation, because a quick glance in her direction has him catching a smirk emerging on her face. “Cool out, slick. We’re almost there.”

           “Hmph.”

           “‘He that can have patience can have what he will’. Benjamin Franklin, right?”

           “Indeed.” Franklin had never known the perfection to be found in Abbie’s embrace, however, Ichabod thinks sourly. The thought makes him wrinkle his nose. “And I fully intend to.”

           Abbie frowns. “Intend to what?”

           Ichabod turns, affixing her with a dark look. “Have what I will.”

           It may simply be his imagination, but the car seems to pick up speed.

           Finally, blessedly, Abbie pulls down the winding road that his cabin sits at the end of. Before the car even comes to a complete stop, Ichabod is undoing the restraints belting him to the seat.

           He means to come around to the other side of the car to help her out, but by the time he does, Abbie is already on her feet and slamming the door. Still, she takes his hand and lifts the skirts of her gown as they climb the porch stairs. Ichabod pulls open the door and is hit with delicious warmth; the fire has died to naught but embers but the cabin is still warm and inviting. With the remaining glow in the hearth, there is just enough light to make out Abbie clearly in the darkness, and that’s all he needs.

           Pushing the door closed with one foot, Ichabod draws Abbie into his arms and finally, _finally_ kisses her the way he’s wanted to all night, with urgency and abandon. Abbie makes a sound of surprise that melts into one of sleek satisfaction and molds her body to his, coaxed by Ichabod’s hands on her back. Ichabod is far past the point of sanity to keep the kiss gentle and chaste; his mouth and hers open almost simultaneously and their tongues meet in the heat between. The lace of her sleeves drags against the rough of his coat as she slides her arms up until they are around his neck, palm of one hand cupping the edge of his jaw, fingers burrowing themselves in his hair. His teeth catch her lip, dragging over the flesh and sweet Christ, he could _devour_ her alive.

             It could be minutes or hours later when the contact is finally broken and they pull back. Abbie’s eyes have gone heavy, pupils already blown and she is clearly just as far gone as he is. Still, she manages to summon up a sly half-smile.

            “Home,” he breathes in the small space between their lips.

            Abbie kisses him again, too soft and fleeting. “Hmm?”

            “You asked me how you look in the dress. You look like home.” Abbie’s eyes search his face. Ichabod traces the line of her cheekbone with the backs of his knuckles, “You are devastating, Abigail Mills. You have ruined me.”

            Abbie surges in his arms and kisses him again, hands slipping down to clench the fabric of his shirt in greedy fistfuls. Thought recedes in the slide of their lips, in the way she nibbles at his mouth with desperation, as though it is _she_ who is ruined. When they next part, Abbie’s eyes are lovely and unfocused with want. Ichabod kisses her cheeks and her forehead, pulling away only when she makes a small sound.

            “Abbie?”

            “Nothing, it’s—I just never thought I’d…” Abbie seems to struggle to find the words. Ichabod waits patiently, thumbs inscribing comforting circles against the balls of shoulders too slim to bear the burdens they do. Finally, she draws her eyes up to his, biting her lip. “You were just some weird English dude in a funny coat claiming to be from the eighteenth century. If somebody would’ve told me five years ago that you would become the most important person in my life, I…”

            “Would have arrested them,” Ichabod suggests, just so he can hear Abbie laugh.

            She does, bright and carefree and Ichabod thinks he could live off the sound alone. Abbie shakes her head sheepishly. “I’m no good at this. You know I’m not. But I mean it,” she says firmly, lifting her eyes again. “I can’t imagine my life without you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

            Christ be merciful, she would never have to find out. Neither of them would. Ichabod mislikes thinking like this, mislikes being faced with the reality of the war and their roles in it. It is not practical but he always finds a reason to push such grim thoughts away. And there is no better reason than the one he is presented with now: Abbie, eyes aglow with tenderness, hand placed possessively over his beating heart.

            He lowers his mouth to hers once more and loses himself in the tempest that forms whenever they kiss.

            In a fashion similar to the dance they had done at the benefit, Ichabod shuffles Abbie backward, step by small step until the curve of her rear meets the edge of the dining table. It is only a small thing to lift her up so that she is seated on it, and the motion doesn’t even require that he pull his lips from hers. Abbie goes willingly, humming into his mouth and parting her legs so that he may stand between them. Now they are almost of a height and Ichabod barely has to lean down to kiss her. He knows she can feel him, aroused as he is and he can’t readily shake the vague feeling of indecency at this, the two of them fully clothed and he pressing his aching hardness to the sinful heat betwixt the skirts of her gown like some errant schoolboy.

            But Abbie, reading him as she always does, hooks a sturdy leg behind his thigh and pulls him even closer so that he is flush against her. What little control Ichabod had left snaps in that moment and he moans softly, breaking their kiss. Abbie makes to follow him as he pulls back, crooning a wordless sound of protest that knots his gut in pleasurable coils. Her eyes open and it takes her a moment to focus on his face.

            “Crane?” she asks when he doesn’t move right away.

            Slipping his hands 'neath her, he shifts her back so that she is better situated on the table. Again, Abbie allows herself to be moved, confusion and curiosity and raw desire warring for dominance in her expression. Ichabod presses a final, lush kiss to her lips, and then slides down till he is kneeling on the floor beneath her.

            Abbie’s breathing quickens and her eyes go black with want. “Crane,” she says again, softer and almost reverent.

            He needs no more invitation than that. Catching the skirt and petticoats in his fists, Ichabod lifts them up till they are gathered high on her thighs. He takes a moment to admire the length of her legs, gliding his hand along the white stockings encasing them until he meets the bare flesh of her thighs. The cords of muscle beneath the skin tremble under his touch, and Ichabod glances up to find Abbie staring right down at him, eyelids heavy and lip caught between her teeth.

            He holds her gaze as he creeps his hands up achingly slowly, inch by delicious inch. His fingertips find the edge of her decidedly modern undergarments, and he waits.

            “Crane,” Abbie repeats, this time in warning. The effect is ruined by the pleading edge in her voice. Ichabod, however, will not be moved and he tilts his head to the side, watching her and waiting.

            Abbie’s fists clench in the folds of her skirts. “God, Crane, _please_ ,” she whispers in a voice that is positively wrecked, and that’s all the prompting he needs.

            In one deft motion, Ichabod hooks his fingers in her underwear and pulls them down and off, tossing them aside before burying his head between her thighs.

            The first touch of his tongue to her has Abbie mewling, hands flying from her skirts to his shoulders. With infinite care, he draws his mouth over her folds and the taste of her explodes over his tongue, heady and familiar and wonderful. He moves his lips eagerly, lapping up as much of her as he can, sliding his arms under her thighs to help hold her still. Abbie’s breath catches when his attentions shift to the bud at the apex of her thighs. He teases it gently with just the tip of his tongue at first and her thighs quake dangerously on either side of his head. Then, he draws it into her mouth, opening his eyes to watch her.

            Abbie’s elbows collapse beneath her and she falls back against the table, arching into his mouth and whining in her throat. Ichabod hums, pleased with her reaction and the vibrations make her heels skitter over his back. He could do this for _hours_ , he thinks blindly, could make love to her just like this with only his lips and tongue, feasting himself on the sounds she makes and the sight of her writhing ‘neath him, lost to all but his ministrations.

            But this won’t take hours, to both his chagrin and his satisfaction. Abbie is so wet and so hot under his mouth as if she has been just as on edge as he has the past few hours, and the frequency of her gasps and keens lets him know that he is driving her to her peak with a quickness. A part of Ichabod wants to prolong this because he is ravenous for her like this, wanton and desperate and shaking under his arms, but when she opens her mouth and whimpers, “Please, please, _please_ Crane,” he cannot deny her her release.

            Digging his fingers into the soft flesh of her thighs, Ichabod closes his lips around her and sucks gently and that’s all it takes. Abbie shudders and gasps, body wracked with spasms as she goes to pieces in his arms. Ichabod chases as much of her pleasure as he can with his tongue until Abbie is shakily pushing his shoulder, nudging him back.

            He sits back on his heels and watches her lift herself up on unsteady elbows, eyes wild and face flushed. When her thighs stop shaking, Ichabod lowers them gently and rises, leaning over her. Abbie knots quaking fingers into the fabric of his shirt and pulls him against her again, fitting her lips to his and licking into his mouth to taste herself.

            Ichabod slides cool hands over the super-heated flesh of her thighs and Abbie tenses before shuddering sinuously, melting against him. “Ichabod,” she whispers and a thrill goes through him at the sound of his name. He has her, now.

            Ichabod pulls away just enough so that he can press a soft, lingering kiss to the spot on her neck he knows drives her mad. “You,” he breathes softly, “are the most exquisite creature.”

            “I want you,” she mumbles, head falling back to expose more of that tender flesh to his waiting mouth.

            Ichabod rumbles in satisfaction. “You will remove this gown _now_ ,” he murmurs, tugging on the lace ties of her corset for emphasis, “or I will rend it to shreds for depriving me of the sight of you bared.”

            “Promises, promises.” The words are belied by her breathlessness. Satisfied when her hands begin to untie the laces of the bodice, Ichabod occupies himself with dropping kiss after kiss against the smooth skin of her throat, lacing the fingers of one hand through her hair.

            Abbie makes a soft, desperate sound and her hands fly up to his arms to steady herself. “Not helping.”

            “Not meant to,” he returns, teeth dragging over a pulse point. Abbie’s fingers scrabble in his coat and clench down, hard. “Focus, Abigail. There is a task at hand.”

            “Bite me, Crane.”

            He does, and she gasps. “Poor choice of words.”

            Abbie slides off the table, pulling his coat down around his arms. The motion presses her hips to his against the hardness there and Ichabod hisses. Now that he has seen to her pleasure, his own hunger is thrown into sharp relief and the contact renders him momentarily frozen. Abbie shifts her hips again, this time calculatedly, and Ichabod’s head falls forward against hers and he bites back a sound.

           “Focus, Ichabod,” she taunts with a devious look and then, it is simply impossible to not kiss her again.

            Ichabod isn’t exactly sure how they make it to his bedroom. Somehow they do together, losing articles of clothing along the way; his coat ends up on the sofa, boots and socks nudged aside in the hallway. Abbie’s own shoes get kicked off at the threshold of his room, one skidding to a halt under his bed, but neither of them can bring themselves to care. Abbie tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it at the edge of the bed, dragging her nails over his sternum and stomach. The muscles in his belly tense and jump with the motion of her hands and when Abbie bows her head to place tender, sweet kisses along the gnarled scar that runs jaggedly across his chest—the scar that had ended his life, the scar that had ultimately led him to her—Ichabod’s stomach clenches with the force of his desire.

            Ichabod wants nothing more than to hoist Abbie bodily onto the bed and cover her body with his own, but there is still the problem of the dress. Together, both their hands work at the ties of her corset. She has far more luck than he, and more patience; after a moment of struggling, Ichabod growls and yanks at the laces. It amuses Abbie.

            “We have all night,” she croons, deft little hands pulling out loop after loop. “Slow down.”

            Slower, she bids him. _Slower_ , when she has tantalized him the entire evening with her looks and her words and her little touches, with that damnable gown. When he is already weak when it comes to her, when he is sick with want that is quickly morphing itself into hungry need, when she is _necessary_ to him in every way. His words before about rending the dress to shreds had been a half-jest, but Ichabod thinks now that he actually could, that he could take the fabric of the dress in his fists and rip it clean from her compact little body.

            Ichabod’s eyes follow Abbie’s fingers which are admittedly making quick work of the laces. The bodice is loosening, exposing more of her shoulders, expanding easily with every breath she takes. When it is loose enough, Ichabod draws his hands beneath the sleeves and brushes them down her arms. The dress slides off her body like butter, falling into a heap on the floor. Next go the petticoats and that leaves her in a silken shift, something Abbie calls a slip with thin straps that come off her shoulders easily. It joins the dress and petticoats and then, finally, she is bare.

            Ichabod yields to the urge to lift Abbie into his arms and carry her the remaining three feet to his bed. Abbie hooks her legs around him and does not let go when he lowers her so that they both tumble onto the mattress in a glorious tangle of limbs.

Abbie’s hands work at the laces of his breeches and she mutters, “Now, Ichabod, now,” against his ear in a breathless whine. Somehow they manage to get his trousers and underclothes down his hips and legs, where he kicks them off the side of the bed.

            “Your stockings,” Ichabod says weakly as Abbie blindly seeks his mouth with her own.

            “Leave them, just— _now_ , Ichabod.”

            How can he refuse? Rolling them over so that he is on his back, Ichabod sits up against the pillows, guiding Abbie’s hips over his. “Go on, then,” he murmurs against her lips, “how you like it.”

            Abbie makes an incoherent, thankful sound and plants her knees on either side of his thighs. She reaches behind herself and catches his length in her hand, drawing it up and down in a motion that has Ichabod digging his fingers into her thighs. “Abbie,” he doesn’t quite moan, feeling perilously close to begging himself, looking up at her and finding nothing but sin in her beautiful eyes.

            “Yes?” she inquires, eyes fixed to his mouth.

            “Mercy,” he gasps out.

            It is enough for her. Shifting once more, Abbie guides the length of him to her body and then lowers herself. His long groan is lost to her sharp gasp as she seats herself astride him. The hot clutch of her is overwhelming and when Abbie lifts herself again, then lowers, Ichabod can’t bite back the sound he makes.

            “Ichabod.” Bleary eyes crack open and find hers. Abbie holds his gaze. “Watch,” she says softly, a mere breath of air between them, but it may have been a command from a superior officer for how compelled he feels to obey.

            Abbie shifts again and again until she is rocking, sucking in short breaths, eyes never leaving his. His hands trail over her thighs, her hips and her waist, searching fruitlessly for a place to anchor themselves as she moves. God, he loves her like this: in control and unashamed, seeking her gratification from him in her own way at her own pace, face freely open so he can take in every flicker of pleasure, every moan and sweet sigh. He nudges his hips up and knows he’s struck true when Abbie’s eyelids flutter and she cries out. He leans forward, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her even closer until their bodies are knit together, mouths meeting in the little space between them.

            Thoughts of hours spent entwined like this slip away with every cant of her hips against his. Ichabod is too far gone, wound up too tightly to last more than a few moments. Thankfully, Abbie seems just as close as he does, hard nipples skating enticingly against his chest as she rocks and grinds against him with growing urgency. He thinks of drawing one hand down between their bodies to tease her over the edge but something else comes to mind.

            When he is certain he can stand no more, Ichabod presses his forehead to hers. “Abigail,” he gasps out, “open your eyes. Let me see you.”

            “Ichabod,” she moans, riding him desperately now.

            “Let me see you,” he says again, kissing her once, fleetingly. “Please.”

            Abbie cries out and goes rigid in his arms, and her eyes blow wide open as she clenches around him. It is all Ichabod needs to find his own release. He buries his face in her neck and prays that it muffles the raw, broken moan he makes as he comes, shuddering against her and gasping for air.

            It is some time before Ichabod can find the strength to move again. The vice grip of Abbie’s arms loosens gradually until her hands glide down over his shoulders and chest and he finally pulls back to look at her. The dreamy, sated look in her eyes is more beautiful than any sunrise he has ever seen.

            “Mmm,” she hums, kissing him. “Good?”

            “Very,” he returns, voice low and still unsteady.

            Ichabod cannot shake the bereft sensation that comes over him when Abbie unwinds herself from his body, swinging her leg over and falling to the bed beside him, boneless and chest heaving. He follows her motion, slumping down until he is on her back next to her, and they recuperate in the darkness.

            “So,” Abbie says conversationally once her breathing has normalized, “that dress.”

            “That dress,” Ichabod agrees, eyes falling closed.

            “I should keep it,” Abbie continues, one hand smoothing her hair out of her face. “I should have it bronzed, actually. We could hang it up on the wall.”

            “You are a cruel woman indeed to make sport of a man while he lies nude in bed with you,” states Ichabod, not offended in the least.

            “Me? Make sport of you? I would never. Tell you what,” she suggests, twisting to face him, “I’ll trade you. That dress for your coat.”

            “Not a chance. You’ll set fire to it.”

            “I will not. I’ll wear it.”

            Ichabod snorts. “You lie through your teeth, Abigail Mills.”

            “I do no such thing. I’ll wear it.” Abbie picks her head up and looks him right in the eye. “And nothing else.”

            Ichabod’s mouth goes dry. Half an hour ago, he had thought that there could be nothing more alluring than Abbie in a gown from his time. Now, he’s not so sure.

            “It would certainly be less of a hassle to divest you of,” Ichabod says when words return to him.

            Abbie laughs. “Imminently practical. That’s me.” She inches closer, brushing her lips once more over his. Ichabod is just getting lost in them when a sound startles them both, jerking them upright.

            Ichabod turns to see flashing from the nightstand. He groans. “That thrice-damned mobile _phone_.”

            Abbie has already rolled over to reach it. She lifts it to her ears, rolling onto her back once more. “Mills.”

            Though the voice on the other end is too faint to make out exact words, Ichabod can tell that the person on the other end is a woman. He strokes Abbie’s arm absently, watching her expression slowly transform as she listens.

            “Sheriff, hold on a sec.” Abbie lowers the phone, presses a button and then holds it between them. “Okay, repeat that.”

            Reyes’ voice is amplified between them. “I said we’ve got a situation. Somebody came tearing through the building while I was upstairs meeting with union reps. It’s a mess here; tables and chairs overturned, equipment damaged, and all the attendees seem pretty shaken.”

            “Anybody eyeball the perp?” Abbie inquires, combing her fingers through the hair on Ichabod’s chest.

            “Party-goers are insisting that it was some kind of…creature. A beast, something like a wolf. I know how it sounds,” Reyes adds skeptically. “Under normal circumstances I’d call it a Halloween prank—some costumed freak driven by too much booze or drugs, but…”

            Ichabod perks up a little. It isn’t like the sheriff to hesitate. “But?” Abbie prompts.

            “We’ve got some tracks outside.” Reyes pauses. “They aren’t human.”

            “Not human,” Abbie repeats, exchanging a look with Ichabod. They both sit up.

            “It sounds insane, but Mills…they’re wolf tracks. Honest-to-god _wolf_ tracks, only three times the size. I need you on the scene for this.”

            “I’m on my way,” Abbie says. Before she can even hang up the phone, Ichabod is reaching for his shirt. She sits back against the headboard. Eventually, her eyes wander to his. “What are the chances it’s an actual werewolf, d’you think?”

            “I think,” Ichabod says, slipping his shirt over his head, “we should take the silver dagger Miss Jenny acquired for us.”

            Abbie heaves an almightily tired sigh, then throws the covers off her. Before rising, she shoots Ichabod one last, devilish look. “Try not to get any mud on your coat. I have plans for it later.”

            “I will do my level best.”

            “Happy Halloween, Crane,” calls Abbie, closing the bathroom door behind her.

 

* * *

 

 END


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